Deus Necros

Ludwig kept to a measured climb up the dark mountain. He didn’t rush, didn’t run, and didn’t sprint, not because his legs couldn’t, but because places like this punished speed with ambushes.

The fog above was thick enough to swallow silhouettes whole, and the trees were twisted into ugly angles that made shadows look like they were moving even when they weren’t.

He didn’t fear it, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

He kept Durandal low and ready, the blade’s tip hovering near the ground without dragging, his eyes cutting from trunk to trunk and back to the narrow path where Gale’s markings should have been.

The shadows kept moving at the mountain range. Not the soft shifting of leaves in wind, there was no wind here. This was a different kind of motion: a glide behind bark, a flicker that vanished the moment he tried to focus on it.

And as he pushed higher, more and more effigies revealed themselves, frozen in horror at awkward angles, mid-step, mid-reach, mid-prayer, each held in place by those same thorny vines that didn’t look grown so much as placed.

Yet once again, “Not a single ogre.” Ludwig muttered to himself.

That absence was starting to become its own warning. Trolls, goblins, orcs, lizardmen, plenty of those. But not a single ogre corpse, not a single ogre effigy, not even bones. If ogres lived here, they either didn’t die here… or they were the reason death looked like this.

He thought that the Soothsayers were the reason for this petrification, but since he didn’t inspect them, he couldn’t tell. Still, their presence had made the effigies move earlier, vines tightening, heads turning, and that kind of reaction usually meant hierarchy. Predator and environment, master and trap. Though since the mere presence and appearance of these Soothsayers was enough to make even the effigies move, they must have been related in some form.

Ludwig continued moving up the cold mountain, the tree line twisted more and became thicker. A perfect place for an ambush.

The trunks crowded in, branches low enough to snag armor and faces, the ground uneven with roots that looked like they were trying to trip him on purpose.

Ludwig’s orc body felt every misstep more than his undead body ever would; muscles tightened, lungs pulled cold air, and the night chill sank into joints that were not used to being living.

There was, however, one small difference here.

“Hmm, seems like there are no effigies here.” He muttered as he looked around.

It wasn’t relief. It was a suspicion. Between the trees and the narrow pathways, there was simply nothing. Just ankle-high grass and some rocks here and there. No frozen horrors. No vine-wrapped corpses. No warning statues. The emptiness felt intentional, like a corridor cleared for something to happen.

The silence broke as the echo of a loud inhuman scream vibrated through the space. It came from high above. The sound was raw and ragged, not a single voice but something that carried the same wrongness as the children’s laughter, too sharp, too clear, too placed.

Ludwig rushed up, making sure his eyes were peeled for Gale’s markings. The decision to sprint was a cost he hated paying in a place like this, but the scream was worse than a trap, because it meant his people were involved, and Ludwig didn’t like being made to choose between caution and responsibility.

If his companions were caught up in some sort of mess, he needed to be there for them. He never trusted the Ogres to lead them into safety, but it was still better than trusting those snake like entities. The Soothsayers had already proven they could multiply, could distract, could lure with sound. Ogres were unknown. Unknown was at least honest about being dangerous.

The screams soon doubled down, and increased in both pitch and number. Ludwig hurried more, crossing between low hanging branches, and complex tree growth until he reached what looked like a clearing. His feet hit softer ground, packed dirt instead of root-choked slope, and the air felt heavier here, like it had been breathed too many times and never refreshed.

Two lizardmen were on the ground, bleeding. Akro had half of his arm shredded, skin ripped and wounded. His other arm held the spear with difficulty.

The wound looked violent, jagged, like something had chewed rather than cut. Two more lizardmen lay nearby, one motionless, one twitching faintly. Gale was nowhere to be seen, nor were the ogres.

“What’s wrong?” Ludwig asked as he rushed next to them.

“Ah, Orc,” Akro said, “The creatures here attacked us, they ran away, a couple of my comrades are down. Can you help us?” he said.

The words were right. The tone was wrong. Ludwig’s eyes flicked over Akro’s face, too smooth in its panic, too perfectly placed. The scream from earlier hadn’t matched this “injured” man’s breath either. And the clearing smelled wrong: not just blood and sap, but something faintly sweet, like bait left out too long.

Ludwig replied, “Sure,” he said as he approached Akro, then swung Durandal up.

He didn’t hesitate, because hesitation was how these things learned. Durandal rose in a clean arc and tore through flesh, fast enough that even the air didn’t seem to catch up to the motion.

Ripping the wounded arm and making Akro howl from pain.

“Why are you doing this!” Akro hissed.

The howl was real enough, but Ludwig didn’t flinch. He watched the reaction like a man watching a mask slip.

“Why not? I don’t know you after all, why do you have the appearance of Akro?” Ludwig asked.

He kept his voice level. Not triumphant. Not angry. Practical. This wasn’t revenge. This was diagnosis. And the biggest tell was simple: real injured allies didn’t start their plea by calling him “Orc” like it was a reminder.

The Lizardman’s face twisted into a long grin, something impossible for the skeletal structure of the Lizardman.

“How did you know?” it asked.